My wife’s IVF hormone drugs arrived today via courier; a large refrigerated box, with “THIS WAY UP” written on it upside down. She was out, so I unpacked it and hopefully refrigerated the correct ones (they’re currently sharing shelf space with a box of eggs, half a toblerone and a bottle of cider).
She talked me through them when she got home:
“This is the one which starts the process, to be taken nasally… This one is to be injected… This one puts my hormones back to normal… This one is to be taken vaginally… Whereas this one…”
Hopefully, she didn’t notice my glazed expression as it all washed over me. I’m acutely aware that all I have to do is wank into a beaker. No drugs, no hormones, nada. Just wanking – she certainly has the much rougher end of the bargin! None of this starts until next Thursday, but suddenly it all feels a lot more real; we’re really going to do this. Stress levels have jumped accordingly – although that may have something to do with the fact that neither of us have gone to bed particularly early recently. Last night we went to see La La Land after a full day house hunting, and the night before I was up until midnight attempting to finish a piece of university coursework. Consequently, nerves are a little frayed in the Astronomer household as we’re both tired and tetchy.
We spent yesterday house hunting in the area that we’re going to be moving to in a few months; a procession of estate agents, touring villages and small towns. The South Downs – the area which we’d like to move to (countryside, rolling hills, clean air, etc) – has an average property value of probably about £100,000 above our actual budget. Not good! Unfortunately, this means that the greatest volume of affordable property was in town itself, which neither of us are particularly set on. More vexing was the estate agents themselves. Some, when asked about which areas of town to avoid, would be honest, open, and give genuine feedback whilst drawing metaphorical hatched areas on maps with the word “NO” scrawled across it in big, angry letters. Others, however, upon realising that you were from out of town, would smile broadly, declare the whole area as a wonderful place to bring up kids, before trying to flog you a bargain bucket house on the estate the previous five estate agents had expressly warned you to avoid. Despite this Janus-like approach we found Mrs Astronomer seemed to enjoy herself, and we have a long list of potential places to view (a couple actually in the area we want!), so overall it’s been a success. Mrs Astronomer is happy because we get to choose a house together, as opposed to living in the one I chose before we were dating – little things like that are important. Now we just need to figure out mortgages, and find a new solicitor (note for Americans: also known as a “Lawyer”) as the chap I used to buy my current house is no longer available, which is a shame as I genuinely got on very well with him; lovely bloke, very professional – he just happens to be the father of an ex-girlfriend of mine who broke my heart a few years back, which is an object lesson in why you should never mix business with pleasure!
I don’t yet have a starting date for my new job yet, but we’ll have to get a move on – we need to find somewhere where, if all goes to plan (please, dear god, let it go to plan), we can raise a family. None of this is made any easier by the constant shattering exhaustion forced upon me by late night deadlines, early mornings and lying awake at night worrying. Still, it all seems to be going to plan, so perh – ha. I just caught myself about to say “perhaps everything will be fine!” Point is, change is afoot, and all we can do is relax and go with it.
Deep breath, it’ll be fine…